Peace
by Squashed Sandcastle
Summary: Sydney goes on a ski mission and gets stuck in a chairlift overnight with a certain someone. If you've read anything else by me, I bet you can guess who it is. HINT: It's NOT Vaughn. NOW FINISHED IN IT'S ENTIRETY!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias. Big Shocker there. Kudos to J.J. Abrams and Co.-- Go them.  
  
Author's Note: Since the Swiss Alps are just so special, their chairlifts are cooler than the ones we got here in America. They are these boxed-in little booths, like miniaturized train compartments, with little doors to keep out the wind. Cool, huh? Hope this provides a better visual for this piece. Thanks for reading, and please review!!!!  
  
______________________________  
  
"It's your basic smash and grab job, Syd." Sitting in a CIA conference room. Reviewing for yet another mission in search of yet another precious Rambaldi artifact. Same Bat time, Same Bat channel. Syd yawned, much to the dismay of Agent Kendall. He gave her a scolding look. Syd didn't care.  
  
Ever since he had made the "Executive Decision" to send Vaughn to France for three years on location, Syd had basically lost all respect for the man. After the Alliance was destroyed, it was supposed to finally work out for us, Syd thought. Til Kendall decided to issue a company policy that included no dating between coworkers.  
  
In the beginning, they hadn't cared. They just dated behind Kendall's back. But it was inevitable that hewould find out. Syd hadn't believed at the time that he would take such drastic measures. As it turned out, the CIA could be just as bad as SD-6 when it came to rule breaking. They banished Vaughn to France, and forbade any further contact between him and Sydney. It had been a year and a half, and she was still stuck in limbo, waiting for him to come back to LA.  
  
It didn't even matter that she was forbidden to talk to him. She just wanted to see him again. Sigh . . . . . . . .  
  
Syd looked up from her routine moping session to find had stopped talking and Kendall was glaring at her.  
  
"Sorry," Syd said, faking a smile, "Just a little tired today."  
  
"Agent Weiss, repeat the details of the mission for Agent Bristow please. I'm going to go get coffee." Kendall stormed out impatiently.  
  
Weiss sighed. "Look Syd, I miss Vaughn too. But you've gotta get your head back in the game or else you might hurt yourself on a mission."  
  
Sydney closed her eyes, massaging her temples with her fingertips. When did she become so jaded? When I realized that it doesn't matter what side I'm on-They're all corrupt, she thought, answering her own question.  
  
"I'll be fine Weiss. What's the mission?"  
  
"Like I said, your basic smash and grab job. You get to go skiing."  
  
____________________________________________  
  
Which is how Sydney Bristow ended up in a Swiss Ski Resort at midnight, looking for another lost scroll that would reveal the location of the last missing piece in Rambaldi's Ultimate Weapon. The helicopter dropped her off at the top of the mountain with her skis and poles and left her there with no backup. If Vaughn had been here, she thought, he would have insisted on backup. He would have insisted on my safety.  
  
Life's a Bitch Syd, said the little cynical voice inside her. Either deal with it or get out of the game. Nobody cares about your problems. Suck it up.  
  
That little voice had been getting louder in the past few years. She had been at the job too long, and it was taking it's toll.  
  
Syd sighed, and began gliding gracefully across the snow, searching for the specific Latitude/Longitude point where Rambaldi had hidden his treasures. Ice began forming on her hair, crystallizing on her eyelashes. If I cried, would it turn to ice? Syd wondered.  
But she never cried anymore.  
At night on the Alps, temperatures normally range below zero; lifeless. Syd was certainly feeling that no.  
  
Syd stopped at the spot. Momentarily checking her readings, she looked down once more. All that stood at the spot was a single pine tree. Syd was about give up, when she saw a symbol carved into the bark. The eye of Rambaldi.  
  
Walking around the tree to examine it closer, she noticed a vibrant red orchid growing at the base of the tree-- A scientifically impossible occurence. Was this what she was supposed to retrieve? She had not been given many details.  
"I'm assuming you'll know it when you see it." Weiss had said.  
A bare spot of ground lay in the flower's shadow, completely devoid of snow. Sydney dug into the cold, hard earth searching for the constantly out- of-reach Rambaldi Vision.  
  
There. Her hands struck wood. Pulling out the box, Syd grimaced as she realized it was a miniature coffin. Opening it tentatively, inside she found the perfectly preserved body of a white turtle dove, holding a small glass sphere in its beak.  
How ironic, Sydney thought, that he used the symbol of peace when what he invented was a weapon of strife. Almost ceremoniously, Sydney closed the box once more. The dove seemed so peaceful and divine; she wanted to keep it that way. Letting out another sigh, she tried not to think of the desecration that awaited it back in LA.  
  
A twig snap in the distance awoke Sydney from her dream. Her head snapped up sharply as she saw a flash of black move through the trees. She ducked low just in time as a gunshot rang out, echoing out through the silent snow. Silent no longer, Syd realized, as the echo ceased to fade. The rumble grew louder, growing closer. The other agent was trivial. She had bigger problems now.  
  
Instinct and adrenaline seized her body, and Syd jumped up, speeding down the mountain in an effort to outrun the wave of white that was coming towards her, growing in speed and mass with every foot.  
  
Syd bent over in an effort to become more aerodynamic, the wind whipping past her, almost louder than the avalanche itself.  
  
Faster, Syd, faster. Don't look back. FASTER.  
  
The thundering grew closer to her every second, a freight train heading towards her that was hopeless to outrun.. Don't look back, she told herself . . . Don't look back.  
  
For a moment Syd saw the memory of her mother, in her mind's eye, cheering her on at a Little League Baseball game.  
****************  
  
She was running for homebase, just as the outfielder threw the ball in a high arc towards the pitcher.  
  
She saw her mother, eyes watering with excitement, shouting-- "Run Sydney!!!! Faster! FASTER! GO!!!!!"  
  
It had been a race between her and the ball, and the ball had won.  
  
Snow cones after the game. Her mother saying-"It's alright Honey, you just weren't quite fast enough."  
  
***************  
  
Funny, Syd thought, how an entire day can flash through your eyes in an instant. I'll be fast enough this time.  
  
Shards of ice sprinkled on the back of her neck. It was right behind her. Syd leaned forward, gaining speed, frost crystallizing on her goggles from the cold wind.  
  
In the rush and haze, Syd could just make out the chairlift, growing steadily closer. She didn't stop to think of why it would be turned on. In a split second decision between an unmarked grave in the snow and the safety of the chairlift swinging above the chaos, Syd chose the chairlift.  
  
A box had just begun its ascent into the clouds when Sydney grabbed hold of the open door, hanging on for dear life as the snow rushed past below her. it crashed into her dangling feet, ripping off her skis, beating at her legs and tattering her pants. A few more seconds and the Chairlift had risen higher, out of danger. Syd let out a breath. Safe.  
  
Suddenly, fifty feet in the air, the chair lurched to a stop. Sydney just managed to catch herself as the chair jerked, then swung motionless. Glancing down the way she had come, she realized that the avalanche had knocked out the control tower. She was stuck.  
  
With one last burst of strength, Sydney pulled her tired, battered body into the compartment and shut the door. Closing her eyes, she sank to the floor.  
  
A coldly familiar voice echoed the through the compartment as Syd realized she wasn't alone.  
  
"Fancy meeting you here, Miss Bristow." 


	2. Truce

Syd breathed a moment, body still in agony from the pain she had just endured, then looked up at Sark through half-closed eyes. Only this wasn't anything close to the Sark that she normally came across. Instead reclining on the bench, nonchalant and relaxed, as he normally would be, he was thrown haphazardly across it.  
  
A trickling stream of blood was pouring out of a cut just above his eyebrow. The blood trail arced down beside the bridge of his nose, through his eye and down his cheek-giving the illusion that he was crying tears of blood. His voice maintained, calm, cool and collected, but there was a sharp tinge that Sydney just barely picked up; a desperate quiver. He swallowed once after he spoke, as if trying to choke back a shiver.  
  
"You were the one shooting at me." she rasped. About the time that she had lost her passion for the spying world, she had lost her interest for witty comebacks. Give it to me straight. That's the only way she could take it anymore.  
  
"My apologies Miss Bristow-If I had known it was you I would have used tranquilizers instead." voice was high and uneven. The cold is getting to him, thought Sydney. He coughed once, then did not try to speak again.  
  
Though the cabin did a good service for keeping the wind chill down, it was still all too cold inside. It began seeping into her slowly, as she hunched over to maintain body heat, taking no heed of Sark. Thick, icy tendrils, wrapping around her core, until Sydney lost hold over body and began shivering uncontrollably. Syd was surprised to note that Sark was looking at her with an expression of empathy, when she had been expected be ridiculed, and then tossed out the 50 feet to her death.  
  
Syd noticed he had begun shivering too. It is in times of desperation, that man's outer trappings are shed, and his true mettle revealed, thought Sydney, quoting an author she had long forgotten. It didn't matter-what mattered was that she was seeing the true Sark without trappings and shields. A man who was shaking violently from cold, breathing shallow and quick. No cunning remarks anymore. Just wind and cold.  
  
His eyes began to close. That cut on his head might be a concussion, Syd thought, worried.  
  
Why am I worrying? she thought, instinctively frightened of her own feelings. But then, she reasoned, why should I not worry? Because the CIA is telling me that I shouldn't think of him as a human being? She had learned long ago that the CIA, like every other organization of its kind, dealt in lies, and she could definitely see that the man in front of her was all too human.  
  
His eyes were all but closed now. Syd crawled over to him frantically and shook him awake. His eyes popped open, and she grabbed his face, forcing him to steady his eyes and look at her. His cheeks were ice cold.  
  
"Sark. . . . ." eyes closing, "SARK! Wake up-You've gotta stay awake. You may have a concussion." Syd smacked his cheeks lightly, trying to regain his attention. He looked at her.  
  
He laughed softly, breathing hard.  
  
"What do you care?" he whispered cynically.  
  
"Plenty." she said, her breath clouding in front of his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, comforted by the warmth of it.  
  
"Why don't you just get it over with now and toss me out of this thing?" Sark whispered.  
  
Enough of this shit, thought Sydney.  
  
"Look," she said to Sark, taking her gun out of her pocket and throwing it down, "I declare a truce for one night, for survival purposes." For the first time since Sydney had known him, Sark looked surprised.  
  
"I look at it this way," she continued, "It is pointless for us to sit alone on either end of this thing and freeze to death. The only way we're going to survive is to help each other. Agreed?"  
  
In yet another spasm of shivers, Sark managed to nod.  
  
"Good." Syd set to work. She was in luck-Sark's jacket had the same size zipper as hers. Silently, she thanked her lucky stars that Sloane and Kendall has the same clothing preferences. Carefully taking Sark's jacket off of him (accompanied be even larger shivers), and her own, she joined the two jackets together using the zippers, creating a warm, snug, tube blanket. Helping Sark sit up, she zipped herself and Sark inside.  
  
Pressed up against his body, Syd began immediately to relax. Every muscle in Sark's body was tense, twitching sporadically face inches away from her, Syd couldn't help but notice the warmth emanating from his pale, soft, lips. No Sydney, she thought, don't go there.  
  
"Why are you doing this?" he asked finally, in between shivering gasps.  
  
"Because I don't feel the urge to kill a man just because my organization is against him. Just try and Relax, Sark-you may have a concussion, so don't go to sleep."  
  
She could feel the rigid muscles of his stomach start to relax while she spoke, melting into her warmth. Out of instinct, she snuggled up closer, trying to escape the cold. Sark looked down at her once more with his stormy blue eyes. Syd swore she saw colors shift in them.  
  
"So," she said, "What should we talk about to keep you awake?" 


	3. The Undoing of Sydney Bristow

*******  
  
Yes, I am I hope you think you read me, Hope I start talking crazy, before you understand me. Are we through? You think that I'm beneath you But you like the things that I do wrap'em up and take them with you.  
  
--Matchbox 20  
  
********  
  
Feeling uncomfortable was not something Sark was used to. Sydney was seriously bugging him. He hated her right now, for being so uncharacteristic. Why didn't she just throw him overboard? He wouldn't have hated her for that, for making his miserable excuse for a life disappear. A shiver ran through him.  
  
It might just disappear yet, he though optimistically.  
  
Sydney was looking at him. He wasn't sure if it was because she was actually expecting conversation, or because of the simple fact that there wasn't anywhere else TO look. This was what was making him so uncomfortable. No room to think without being noticed. No place to look other than at Sydney. Not to mention the fact that that avalanche had pretty much wiped away his external pretense.  
  
Now she wouldn't even let him go to sleep. God, he hated her.  
  
"We don't have lighthearted exchanges, Miss Bristow. We don't chat." Say it in the simplest terms. Still too hard to talk. He hated his voice. It kept faltering. He hated being weak, especially when someone else was present. Bloody hell, I hate everything, he thought.  
  
Sydney was laughing at him cynically, but then suddenly her laughter lapsed into coughs. She turned her head away. He could feel her body tense and relax, tense and relax, until the hacking subsided.  
  
"Do you honestly think I want to engage in some witty repartee with you? Forgive me for trying to keep you alive. Next time I'll just let you freeze to death." It was hard to tell when she was speaking without the aide of breath, but Sark was pretty sure that if she had had the energy she would have been spitting those words in his face.  
  
What is wrong with me? Sark wondered. A couple of years ago he would have been laughing in Syd's face, striking up conversation specifically designed to push her buttons. He had grown tired of the game, something he never thought would happen. He used to mock human emotion, now he just shunned it.  
  
He could tell that Syd was beginning to shut it all out too. This was the first time he had seen her in at least two years, and he was taken aback by her sarcasm. The Syd he had known had never been sarcastic, had always taken the risks despite the fact that it endangered her friends and family. The Syd he had known had a constant spark in her eyes. Now he could see that the fire was still there, but it had recessed, for fear of being washed away once more by tears. You had to look deep to see it now, past the veneer . . . . . . . .  
  
"What are you looking at?" Sydney asked hoarsely, then turning away. Finding it impossible, she turned back towards him and just settled with staring defiantly at him.  
  
Sark started to laugh, but found it much too painful under the present conditions. At least his body had warmed up a little bit. Syd had always been incredibly resourceful, albeit a little naïve.  
  
"Nothing, Sydney." Sark swore inwardly. He was slipping, calling her by her first name. Nobody in his life earned that right. He cursed his own fatigue for making him not think straight. How he just longed to sleep.  
  
"Do you have a watch on?" he asked her, wondering how much time was left before the chair opened again. He needed to get out soon, before he fell asleep, or went mad, or both.  
  
Sydney gave him a look. What a random question. She wiggled, trying to get her hand free from the jackets they were wrapped in. Wiggled too far, she realized, as they slipped off the bench and landed with a thud on the floor of the compartment, with Sydney on top.  
  
This is going to be a problem, Sark realized, Syd's face inches away from his own.  
  
Her hair cascaded around her, brushing his face. She was so close that he could feel her breath. Sark closed his eyes for a moment, pretending to be in pain. What he really needed was an excuse not to lean in. Damn this stupid concussion. It was screwing up his thought patterns.  
  
Sydney ignored him, and wiggled one last time, freeing her hand. Sark was surprised to find he was hardly in pain at all, considering Sydney had just fallen on top of him. It is amazing that a person so lethal can be so light, he thought. He looked up again. Sydney was leaning away from his face (thank God) and checking the glowing numbers on her digital watch. The fluorescent glow projected on her, bathing her face in a greenish light. Oddly attractive, thought Sark. No, NO! Bloody concussion . . . . . . . . . .  
  
"It's one-thirty" said Sydney, a little winded. "You warmed up any? This is a little awkward for movement."  
  
That's not all that's awkward, Sark thought.  
  
"Yes." he said. He was definitely warm enough. A little break would be nice.  
  
"Okay." Sydney wriggled around on top of him again, freeing her other arm. Sark realized with sinking thoughts that the jackets' zipper was underneath, behind his back. This was getting very awkward indeed.  
  
"On the count of three, you're gonna have to roll over on top of me." Syd seemed to have come to the same conclusion. "One, two, . . . . . Three!"  
  
Sark grunted and rolled. The impact shoved his head forward, and for one fleeting second, his lips brushed hers, leaving a tingling sensation where they had been. Sydney seemed to have not noticed. Bloody Hell, this is awful.  
  
Sydney wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and bent her head into the crook of his neck, searching for the zipper behind his back. There was her hair again, brushing against his lips. He could smell her strawberry shampoo. Stop, STOP, he thought. He needed sleep. Something to clear his head.  
  
"Almost got it . . . ." she said in deep concentration. There seemed to be a frantic edge to her voice.  
  
Finally, after what seemed like days, he felt Sydney's hand slide down his spine, guiding the zipper.  
  
"Out." she said in a soft voice. Sark rolled off of her and onto the floor beside her. Attempting to stand up at this point would just cause him to stumble, and he did not want to ruffle his smooth appearance more than he already had.  
  
They lay there silent, side by side, for a long time. Sark sat there listening to Sydney's breath rise and fall. Rise and fall. It was incredibly comforting. He could feel the world growing dimmer, softer. Rise and fall.  
  
The down jacket his head was resting on became lighter and lighter. Rise and fall. Such a wonderful pattern . . . . such warmth.  
  
"Sark?!" he could hear Sydney's voice in the distance, but it was such a long ways to come back.  
  
"Sark! Wake up." The ground was shaking. Or was it him?  
  
A sharp sting on his cheek sent him reeling back to reality. Sydney had slapped him.  
  
"Sorry," he said groggily, forcing his upper body into sitting position. He winced in pain, and leaned up against the wall of the compartment. Sydney followed suit, and sat with her arm almost touching his. To Sark, the space between seemed to be too little and too much at the same time.  
  
"I don't care what you do, but you need to find a way to stay awake." Sydney said matter-of-factly. How could she be so devoid of emotion? Isn't that my job? Sark thought.  
  
But Sydney was right. Maybe talking wasn't a completely impossible option. It would keep his mind off . . . . . . .. . . . . . . other things.  
  
"How is everyone back in LA?" he asked, unsure of how to instigate trivial chatter. Normally the only words he ever spoke to Sydney were "Keep your hands in the air and slide the Rambaldi artifact across the floor." Or something along those lines. Either that or he mocked her.  
  
"Fine." she said ambiguously, not helping his cause.  
  
"How's Francie doing? She still in the dark?" He could still have fun mocking her.  
  
"Joined the Witness Protection Program six months ago." She said, with much less emotion than should have been present. Sark raised his eyebrows.  
  
"And Will?"  
  
"Requested CIA transfer to Virginia after being abducted and tortured a second time through. The further he stays away from me, the safer he'll be. Same with Francie. And Vaughn for that matter."  
  
"Oh yes, how is your precious handler?"  
  
"Was shipped off to France." Sark didn't need to ask why. The meaning was clear.  
  
"You seem slightly less than perturbed about these events." he said, stating the obvious.  
  
"I got over it." Her voice contained a distant, emotionless quality to it that Sark knew all too well. A pause as Sark absorbed the information, the undoing of Sydney Bristow stated in her own simple terms.  
  
"Jesus, Sydney, what happened to you?" Slipping up again, Dammit.  
  
"What do you mean?" now her voice became edged with irritation, screaming the underlying message of, "Don't ask."  
  
"Why don't you stop taking physical risks and take an emotional risk for a change?" He turned to face her head on. Syd sat up in anger.  
  
"Look, I've learned from my mistakes. That's what efficient people do." she spat. "I could ask the same about you, Sark. Do you have a life outside of espionage? Do you even have a fucking emotional bone in your body??" Syd moved closer, glaring at him, staring him down.  
  
"That is none of your business, Sydney Bristow." he said, face icing over.  
  
"Why don't you start fixing your own life before you try fixing mine?!" She glared at him, inches away now.  
  
"Why don't you quit believing the bullshit that all your superiors are telling you about patriotism and see the real reason behind all this fighting for power?!" Sark shouted.  
  
"I told you I learn from my mistakes! I don't trust anyone anymore!" Her eyes welled up in anger.  
  
"Then why are you here??" Sark argued, firmly. Sydney looked down.  
  
"I don't know." she said softly. A tear crystallized on her cheek. "I guess there's just no place left for me to go."  
  
Sydney looked up, her eyes wide, wet, and beautiful. Sark couldn't help himself. He leaned it, closing the everythingnothing gap between them, grabbed her head in his hands and kissed her. 


	4. Cardhouse of Memories

Sark's lips were velvet-peachskin rosepetals, the sweetness invaded her, made her melt. It was like biting into a strawberry-- sour and surprisingly wonderful. As the kiss deepened, it penetrated, filling her insides like a strange hypnotic drug, desensitizing her to the outside. Opening her up. She was steadily becoming lost in the moment, losing herself and losing control.  
  
With those last thoughts, fear snared through her mind. She could not handle losing control-the price is too dear to lose control. What was the price? she wondered. Before she could think too much, Sydney pulled back, turning away from Sark. She could not handle the risk of losing herself -her control- again.  
  
She let out an involuntary shudder, for a fleeting instant revealing the inner frailty that she kept hidden so well.  
  
"Sydney, I . . . . . . . ." Sark was having trouble coming up with the words to backtrack on what he'd done. It would be difficult to make reparations on his incompetent behavior.  
  
She turned back, a distant, unreadable look present on her face.  
  
"It's alright. I'm sorry, I . . . . . . . . . ." she trailed off, uncertain of how to finish the sentence.  
  
"I didn't mean to. Blame it on the concussion." Sark had never thought that he would be thanking his lucky stars for having a head injury. It provided a weak, but liable excuse for his actions. Though Sydney surely wasn't foolish enough to believe him, at least there would be no more words on the subject.  
  
"Yeah, it's fine." she was momentarily at a loss for eloquent speech. Sydney was just beginning to notice how tiny this space was, and how stuffy it was. How was it possible that just an hour before she was in danger of freezing to death?  
  
"You mind if I open the door and let in some air? I think the wind has died down."  
  
"It's fine." Sark definitely wasn't cold anymore.  
  
Cold, crisp night air rushed in as Sydney sat at the edge of the door, legs dangling over the side, gazing up at the stars. She reminded Sark of a little girl, lost. He skooched up next to her and sat down, quietly.  
  
"There's Orion." She whispered finally, after a few silent minutes had passed.  
  
It took Sark a few seconds before he spotted the belt, then slowly the rest of the constellation came into view.  
  
"Pretty soon the scorpion will be coming up, chasing him out of the sky." she continued, in a haze. She had always been fascinated by the stars.  
  
"The one creature he never expected, who ended up being his downfall." Sydney looked up at him, reading the heaviness in his words.  
  
"You should never underestimate. It's a dangerous thing." she said, still staring.  
  
"That it is." he whispered, giving a halfhearted smile. They sat in companionable silence a moment longer.  
  
"How do you know so much about the stars? Did you take a college course in astrology before you quit?" His questions were now simply a means to keep the conversation alive, to avoid other issues which pressed in around them.  
  
"How did you know I quit college?"  
  
"Sloane has me keep tabs on you." Despite herself, Sydney felt a tad disappointed.  
  
"Oh." Very witty, Syd, she thought to herself. It had been awhile since she had had a somewhat meaningful conversation with anyone, she needed to brush up on her people skills.  
  
"You never answered my question." Now Sark was curious just to see why she'd sidestepped. Sydney closed her eyes for a moment, and smiled to feel the snowflakes fall upon her eyelids.  
  
"My mother taught me." she said finally. Now Sark wished he had never brought it up.  
  
In his constant investigation of Sydney, he had been made all too aware of how quickly Sydney's family problems had been "solved." At least that's what they called it in the CIA report when they finally got around to executing Irina Derevko after draining her dry of information. Claiming that Irina had committed a disloyal act somehow from in her glass prison, claiming to Sydney that it was "in her best interest."  
  
Like it was in her best interest when during the execution, the CIA finally shoved Jack Bristow over the line between isolation and sanity by making him "bear witness" to the lethal injection. Like it was in her best interest for Sydney to walk into her father's office and find her father's body. He'd shot himself in the head.  
  
Sydney's face was emotionless as she looked out over the dark silent snow. She wished that he hadn't brought that up either. Whenever the issue was mentioned, images flowed into her head. Images of her mother's last words to her. A long maudlin farewell, with many "I love you"'s and "I'm sorry"'s. Images of her father's goodbye note to his daughter. Blood spatters on the paper, almost divinely placed, over the words "I love you, Sydney."  
  
Another long silence. What was there to say?  
  
"I'm sorry." Sark said.  
  
"It's fine. I got over it." Syd said, continuing to stare out into the barren snow, sure that it held the answers to her existence. Sark could almost see her mind retreating to the card house of memories in the back of her mind. He had erected one himself long ago as an escape from bitter realities.  
  
"Like hell." Sark said. Sydney didn't respond.  
  
"Do you ever think about leaving it all?" He continued.  
  
"Every single day." she replied.  
  
"Why do you even bother staying?"  
  
"It's not where I am right now that frightens me as much as where I would be without the CIA. I have no place to go."  
  
A question rose up in Sark's throat, but his rationality silenced it before it was voiced.  
  
"After all this time, I've been kind of realizing how pointless it all is, though." Sydney said, trying to sound casual, shrugging off her observation.  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Well, I first got in the organization to make a difference, to get rid of the bad guy."  
  
"Sloane." Sark interrupted. But Sloane had been dead for 3 months. Sark had done the deed himself. Why was Sydney sticking around?  
  
"Yeah, Sloane. But no matter what I did, more violence still rose up. It's like the harder you try, the farther you sink." Sark nodded, understanding.  
  
"And now, I'm looking back on the impact that I made, and I'm not sure that it was really a positive one." Her voice took on an odd tone. Syd slipped a hand into her jacket pocket, surprised to find the Rambaldi artifact still inside. She opened the miniature coffin and showed it to Sark. The last piece to the Rambaldi puzzle.  
  
Looking down at the soft, peaceful dove, Sark gave a wry smile.  
  
"Oh, the irony." he said, his dry humor returning to him. At the end of the violent bloody race, was the quintessential symbol of peace. Bending closer to the bird, he carefully extracted the glass sphere from its beak, and held it delicately between his fingers. It was slightly smaller than a marble, but heavy. He heard Sydney gasp.  
  
He looked up in time to see the white dove, now very much alive and perching on Sydney's knee, spread its wings and fly away.  
  
"It sat up as soon as you took that thing out of its mouth." Sydney said breathlessly. A hint of a smile played on her face. Rambaldi certainly worked in interesting ways.  
  
Whoa, Sark thought.  
  
Sark sat speechless, watching the dove fly farther and farther away, until it became a white wisp in the sky. For once in his life, he could not find a witty comeback. Trying to keep up appearances, he said nothing and tried his best to wear his usual uncaring mask.  
  
He opened up his hand staring again at the glass ball that had been closed inside it. All this effort seemed to incredibly pointless to him now. How easy it would be to just toss it into the snow, some fifty feet down, to never be found again. He looked up at Sydney, who was staring into his hand as well.  
  
"We should." Syd said quietly. Sark wasn't quite sure how she managed to follow the same thought pattern as he did, but it certainly made communication easier. Both looked up at the same time. He tried to read the expression in her eyes, judge how serious she was about her statement, only to find it impossible to read Sydney's emotions.  
  
"You sure?" he asked. Sydney nodded.  
  
"You do the honors, then." he said, respectfully. He carefully, almost ceremoniously, handed her the artifact.  
  
Sydney stared at it a moment, memorizing its shape, its weight, its feeling. Holding it in the center of her open palm, she stuck her arm straight out the window, and slowly turned her hand down towards the snow, spilling its contents. The sphere rolled, almost in slow motion off her palm, its heaviness leaving her hands along with the weight that seemed to lift from her shoulders as she let it drop, leaving a miniscule crater in the snow, disappearing in the white.  
  
It was a eulogy to all that she had lost in this pointless battle. The battle that led me back to my starting point, Syd thought. It was for Vaughn, Francie, Danny, Will, Noah, her Dad, her Mom, Emily, and even Sloane. Nobody had won the war.  
  
The tears finally came then, salty and bitter. They no longer froze to her cheek. They emptied out Sydney's insides, until there was nothing left but her hollow shell, and Syd wondered what had been in there in the beginning.  
  
Turning away from the door, Syd grabbed the top of her knees and curled up into herself, trying to compact her pain, make herself solid once again.  
  
Tentatively, Sark reached out and put an arm around her shoulder, then gave it all up, pulled her in and hugged her tight. Held her body as it shook with sobs.  
  
When he pulled back out to look at her face once more, Syd could see that the oceans contained within his eyes were draining out onto his cheek. Who would have thought he was capable of tears, Syd thought. She pulled him into a hug once more.  
  
Over Sydney's shoulder, Sark say the sun begin to rise. The night had ended. 


	5. Cheezit Promises

An hour before the ski lifts officially opened again, Syd and Sark sat on the floor of the compartment, facing each other, shooting questions back and forth. The tears had ceased, and in their place, Sydney felt a warm light that she thought had dimmed long ago.  
  
Syd wasn't even sure if the lift would open on time anyways, it depended on how much damage the avalanche had inflicted, she supposed.  
  
"Favorite movie?" Sark asked.  
  
"Amelie." she said, smiling. Sark gave her a quizzical look. "Well, it's just so idealistic and beautiful. Like, the way the world should be."  
  
"Complete with innocent heroes finding sanctuary in porn shops?" Sark said, smirking.  
  
"Of course." Syd said, her grin widening to match Sark's. She had never imagined she'd be having a light conversation with the likes of him. But somehow, it seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Sark leaned in mischievously, glancing at her with raised eyebrows, in what Sydney took to be a perfect impression of Puck. Startlingly un-Sarkish.  
  
"How many couples are having orgasms right now??" he whispered.  
  
"Fifteen!" she whispered back, in a high, chirpy impression of Audrey Tautou. They burst out in laughter.  
  
"I'll admit, that movie wasn't bad." he said after the laughter subsided, shrugging his shoulders.  
  
"And what would you presume to be the best movie ever?"  
  
"The Godfather series, of course."  
  
"I should have guessed."  
  
Syd shook her head, smiling. Typical.  
  
"Hidden talents, other than killing people?" she asked.  
  
"Isn't that enough?"  
  
"C'mon, Sark."  
  
"Fine. I will tell you this much: I have never lost a poker game."  
  
"Again, highly predictable."  
  
"Well then, Miss Bristow, since my answers are oh-so-unsatisfactory, what are your hidden talents? And you can't use singing, I've already heard that one."  
  
"Well, I'm not sure if I have a talent for it, but I REALLY like photography." Sark was sure that she DID have talent. One thing he had learned form working with Sydney Bristow was, she mastered anything she attempted. Not everyone could beat him in a duel with latajangs.  
  
"I haven't done much of it lately though, since the CIA inquiry where they accused me of taking blackmail pictures against the government." Sark remembered hearing about that. Funny how they had completely trusted Haladki, but they were constantly suspicious of the stubbornly-patriotic Sydney Bristow.  
  
"Please tell me that you've learned enough from this conversation to quit your job as soon as you get back." He sounded so much like Will there, it was uncanny, Syd thought. A sharp-sting pang in her gut. Will.  
  
"It's not that simple and you know it. They don't let you just 'walk out' when you've been privy to as much classified information as I have. Plus, there is literally nothing else for me TO do. We've been over this. I have nowhere to go."  
  
"You could always-" Sark hushed the words before they could bubble up any farther in his throat. Sydney looked at him, expectant.  
  
"What?" she asked.  
  
"Never mind." Syd could hear the weight in his words, and wisely chose not to press the subject.  
  
"I have one," he said, breaking the silence.  
  
"What CD is playing in your car right now?"  
  
"Easy. Soundtrack to Chicago."  
  
Sark tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in a look of consideration.  
  
"Not bad at all."  
  
"And what does the Psycho-Assassin-Spy listen to on his way home from work?"  
  
"Why, what every Psycho-Assassin-Spy has: Gershwin." Sydney closed her eyes as a clarinet from Rhapsody in Blue smoothly slinked up the scale, and trembled down again inside her head. It made her melt into a puddle every time she heard it.  
  
"Perfect music for relaxation." Sark continued. Nowadays, relaxation only came in the form jazz. He watched Syd close her eyes and tune out the world. A hint of a smile appeared on her face, her lips turned upward in a sideways seductive grin. If Sark was guessing right by the facial expression, he would bet that she had tuned in to Rhapsody in Blue. Totally instrumental, and totally compelling.  
  
After the song came to close in her head, Syd lazily opened her eyes. Sark was staring at her. Sydney blushed. She had retreated too far into her head.  
  
"Sorry." she said. God, I sound like a schoolgirl.  
  
"No, it was fascinating." It was unnerving to see Sark look so sincere.  
  
"Ummm . . . . . . . . Favorite alcoholic beverage?" She said in a ditch effort to keep the tone light.  
  
"Any REALLY good red wine. You?" Sark said, leaning back against the wall as he imagined the smooth husky taste gliding down his throat. Liquid comfort to go with the jazz.  
  
"The same." Syd contemplated the endless times she had sat down on her couch with Francie with a glass, girl chats and crying sessions after hard missions. She stopped herself from thinking about how much she missed those days. Now the wine was gulped instead of savored, accompanied by a strangled expression to hold back pain, instead of the laughter that once emanated from her.  
  
"In fact, I think that's the only thing in my cupboard right now. I go out so much, I don't even have food at the house." She continued, smiling.  
  
"Me too." Sark said. "No, wait-I bought a box of Cheez-it's the other day. They go perfect with Cabernet."  
  
Syd snorted and doubled over.  
  
"You're joking!" she said, between spurts of laughter. "The smooth, dignified, cold-as-ice Mr. Sark has Cheez-it cravings?? Caviar yes, Cheez- its, no."  
  
"I can see it now . . . . . . You're going to blackmail me into surrendering myself to the CIA, solely on the audacity of a Cheez-it addiction."  
  
"God, I would kill for some junk food right now." Sydney said, her stomach rumbling.  
  
"And Petreuse . . . ." Sark said, his eyes flaming with the temptation of it.  
  
"And a REALLY good Baguette, with some oil and balsamic vinegar." Syd said, closing her eyes and bit her lip. "Oh yeah . . . . ."  
  
"I think we had better quit." Sark said, stomach aching.  
  
"I second that." Syd thought a moment.  
  
"Okay, I've got a good one. When did you enter the espionage business?"  
  
"Same as you. In college. Your mother's assistant at the time, Khasinau, came to me in my dorm one day." Sark had suddenly taken great interest in a rip in his shirt. Sydney didn't ask how he knew about her recruitment. It seemed to be that Sloane had had Sark tracing her for a long time. Surprisingly, she wasn't as angry as she should hav ebeen.  
  
"Why did you take the job?" Syd asked, pressing.  
  
"He said he had a way for me to regain control in my life."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I don't know how long your mother had been considering me-long enough to know my family had died and I had no emotional ties. And most importantly- no money."  
  
The conversation had taken a serious turn again.  
  
"What were you studying in college?"  
  
"Philosophy, ironically enough." Sydney grinned in surprise.  
  
"Philosophy? You know that gets you absolutely nowhere in the real world."  
  
"I didn't care" Sark said simply. "I liked it. I love Levien's theory of Existentialism-It is impossible to tell if anything is actual fact except for the fact that you exist. It helps with the guilt." Syd nodded. It was always best not to think about things in their job. The things they'd done.  
  
"Do you get the headaches?" she asked.  
  
"Yeah. And the dreams?" he asked. Syd nodded. The dreams were the worst. She had had them continually every single night, but she was never used to the waking up in a cold sweat, breathing hard, muscles tense. The faces, blank chalkboard faces of the people she'd killed, flashing through her head before she awoke. Some nights she would see just one person-Danny, her father, Noah . . . . . . . . . . But other nights they just flashed through her in succession, like a flip book. A Book of the Dead.  
  
"Sark?" she asked, looking up at him.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"How did your parents die?" she wondered if he would even answer her.  
  
"They were murdered. My baby sister too. Some protestor opened fire in the street. Northern Ireland's not the safest place to grow up, I guess." The seas were raging in his eyes once more. Syd took his hand and squeezed. She hadn't ever really thought of them as kindred spirits, but in a way Syd knew exactly what he was going through. The cold-always cold, that comes from suppressed emotions. The headaches.  
  
Sark gazed silently down at the empty box, which had once held a dove.  
  
"He said it would give me control, Sydney. But it never worked." It had only been the artifice of control. No more real than his expression.  
  
"I know, Sark. I know." Though he still maintained the same hardened expression, Sydney could see the little boy lost inside his eyes. Lost amongst the storm. Lost like her, with nowhere to go.  
  
Without thinking, Sydney began to lean forward, feeling his warm breath on her blue-tinged lips. Sark met her halfway, in a tender kiss that submerged Sydney into a smoothbeautifullyfolded world. It coated her insides with honey, and subdued her senses into one concentrated feeling. It had been so long since she had felt anything. He was probing inside her being.  
  
Sark put a hand on her back and pulled her closer, and ran his fingers through her hair. He felt like he was on a strange drug, heightening his senses, but muffling his consciousness. So this is what life feels like.  
  
The chairlift jolted, and started once again, jarring them apart. Sydney and Sark looked at each other, breathing hard. He still had an arm around her waist, Syd's senses electrified at the spot.  
  
"Stay with me." he whispered, half questioning, half pleading.  
  
"Okay." she whispered back, and he kissed her once more, hard, fingers massaging the back of her head, holding her. For once, she didn't need to know where she was going. She was content with where she was.  
  
Thirty seconds later when the door opened, the two casually exited the compartment and began walking towards the lift tower, sans skis, sans coat, sans everything. Sydney smiled to see the lift operator gawking at them, in their ripped shirts and jeans, no shoes. He opened the door and beckoned them in, jabbering in Italian. Syd smiled at him, momentarily silencing him.  
  
"Do you have any shoes we can borrow?" 


	6. Epilogue: Shades of Gray

Shades of Gray  
  
I alone see the blue streak in your gray pallid skies,  
  
The one who sees the life inside your cold dead eyes.  
  
I read the countless volumes encased inside one glance;  
  
I know what you'd have spoken, had you thought to take the chance.  
  
I understand the quiet man who hides beneath the dark,  
  
The sunlight pouring on your grave, slicing through the stark.  
  
I saw you stop the world with lead and hide behind your name,  
  
Saw your quivering lips attempt to stifle your candle flame.  
  
Behind the placid shield, I know, you wonder what will be.  
  
You lie awake at night, I know, and worry for your sanity.  
  
I saw the colored symmetries on the life you painted black,  
  
I feel the agony in your breath, your wish to not come back.  
  
I know the road that you have walked has tainted you with red;  
  
Has lost you in the complications twisting in your head.  
  
I see you try to hide your life in shades of black and gray,  
  
And in your eyes you almost make emotions wash away.  
  
But I'm the one who found the life within your cold dead eyes,  
  
I alone have seen the blue within your pallid skies.  
  
--M. Levien 


End file.
